


but heaven ain't close in a place like this

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: (but it's ok), Everyone is Dead, M/M, Multi, excessive consumption of shrimp, the good place AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-01-30 15:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12655941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?"“Sure,” Flint says. He can’t see the harm in it, after all.The man breathes in. Flint’s not sure what he expects, but it certainly isn’t the man exhaling, then saying quickly, “I’m not who they think I am. There’s been some sort of mistake. I'm not supposed to be here."(the good place au)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this happened
> 
> (the snippet on tumblr got to be MORE)

Flint opens his eyes. He feels strangely light, and even though he’s waking up in an unfamiliar location, he doesn’t feel the urge to jump up and discover just where he’s been taken to. 

 

**_Welcome! Everything is fine_ ** , the wall across from him reads in bright green lettering. Flint squints on instinct, but then realizes he doesn’t have to - wherever he is, his vision has improved dramatically. There’s also no residual pain in his left knee - an old injury from his Navy days, and come to think of it, he’s not felt this well-rested in  years \- 

 

“James?” a voice from behind him says. Flint turns his head in response. 

 

“Who are you?” 

 

“Welcome,” the man says, his smile open, his teeth white and straight - and something deep down inside Flint instinctively knows not to trust this man. “My name is Woodes Rogers. Come in, please.” 

 

Flint gets up - his muscles don’t even ache anymore,  _ where the fuck is he _ \- as he follows the man into a brightly lit office. “Where am I?” he asks without preamble, as Rogers sits down across from him. There’s a cactus on the desk in between them, and Flint eyes it, in case he’ll need to utilize it in his escape. 

 

“Well, I regret to inform you that you have died,” Rogers says, and Flint blinks, tearing his eyes away from the plant. “Apologies.” 

 

“I died?” Flint echoes, his mind working as he takes an unsteady seat across from him, trying to remember where he was last - in case this isn’t some especially bizarre dream- “I don’t recall dying.” 

 

“Yes,” Rogers says again, and he pushes forward a box of tissues on his desk in a practiced motion. Flint’s too surprised to cry, however, as the man continues, “If you’re struggling to remember, it’s our standard practice to remove memories of your, well, ending. It tends to shock too many individuals on their arrival to the Good Place.” 

 

“That’s reasonable,” Flint says after a long moment, processing this new development. He’ll play along with - whatever this is. “The Good Place, you said?”

 

“Indeed,” Rogers says. “Please, take a moment - “

 

“Is this heaven or hell?” Flint interrupts. If he really is dead, there’s no point in being polite, is there? “Or is it a purgatory situation?” 

 

“Well, the Christian concepts that you were raised with weren’t the most accurate,” Rogers says. “None of the major religious beliefs, actually - “

 

“How did I die?” Flint asks as he’s beginning to accept that this is not, in fact, a dream.

 

Rogers suddenly has a file in his hands, and he flips through it with a disinterested expression. “Let’s see… James Flint, aged forty-three. You were building a bookshelf for your partner, and you misjudged the weight of a vintage  _ Leaves of Grass _ . Upon putting the item on the shelf, the balance of the bookshelf was thrown off, and it toppled on top of you.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

“The killing blow,” Rogers continues, and Flint tries to hide his cringe, “As it turns out, was a hardcover copy of Dorian Grey, that struck you on the temple at just the right velocity and angle. It was quick.”

 

“Well,” Flint says after a beat. “All right.”

 

“You were found by your partner quickly,” Rogers says, and something sad curls in Flint’s stomach. “Your funeral was reasonably well-attended. Your admiral, in particular, gave a rather emotional speech, as did one of the recipients of the university scholarship you set up back in Padstow.” 

 

_ Your partner _ . Flint straightens in his seat. “If this is some sort of afterlife, does that mean that I will meet others from my life?” 

 

“Well, yes,” Rogers says. “If they have died, and met the requirements for this place - “

 

“Requirements?” Flint interrupts again. “What requirements?” 

 

“Well, this is the Good Place. Only the best of the best arrive here after death, see, judged by myself and other interested parties,” Rogers says. “This will be in your orientation if you would wait a moment - “   
  


 

“You’re telling me that I made it here,” Flint repeats flatly. “To - what, an exclusive heaven?” He’s growing to like Rogers less and less, and he makes sure his fists are hidden as they curl into fists at his sides. 

 

Rogers smiles blandly. “James, I can assure you, you don’t need to worry anymore. Your actions during your life were judged, and you were deemed worthy enough to be sent here after death.”

 

Something like contempt rises in his throat -  _ what kind of heaven has  _ requirements _?  _ \- but he tamps it down long enough to say, “I need to know if someone else is here.” 

 

“Of course,” Rogers says after a moment, and he sits back in his chair. “Who are you inquiring after?” 

 

“Thomas Hamilton,” Flint says. “I don’t know - he was alive before I - before I died - “ His throat starts to close, but Rogers seems to take pity on him. 

 

“Thomas Hamilton is here, yes,” Rogers says, and Flint closes his eyes. He’s caught by the mixture of relief and horror - Thomas had died, and by that, he’s struck by a wave of grief, but if he made it here, Thomas obviously would have made it here -  _ Thomas is here _ \- and Flint can feel his hands relax. “He died a few weeks after you. There was some - debate over your inclusion to this place, you see, and during that time, he passed away on Earth and came here.” 

 

Flint opens his eyes, breathes in, out. Thomas is here. That’s what’s important, he tells himself. He can see Thomas again, and for now, that’s all that’s important. 

 

But then Rogers says, “Your soulmate is here, too,” and Flint’s world tilts on its axis just as rapidly. 

 

“What?” he croaks.  _ Thomas _ \- 

 

“Thomas Hamilton wasn’t your soulmate,” Rogers says, his eyes studying Flint, who feels as though he’s frozen in his seat, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. “But I can bring you to meet yours now.” 

 

Flint wants to say no. He wants to refuse to leave, consequences be damned, or maybe he wants to run out, find Thomas, hold onto him and never let go - but his traitorous feet have him rising, following Rogers numbly out the door. 

 

As soon as they’re in the nondescript hallway, Rogers snaps his fingers, and suddenly, they’re in the middle of a town. 

 

The streets around them are lined with small shops, and Flint reads the signs for an antique shop, a frozen yogurt stand, a hardware store, and several libraries. In the distance, he can make out a sign pointing towards a dock, with several small boats on trailers - ones he recognizes from sailing in his youth - waiting nearby. It’s sunnier than he would have expected, but as Flint glances up, the sun doesn’t hurt his eyes as he gazes up into the sky. 

 

“What is this place?” Flint asks, craning his head around. The people give him quick nods as he meets their eyes, a few even smiling. He watches as a man sets up a sign outside a small restaurant, advertising  _ The Best Pulled Pork in the Best Place! _

 

“This is the Good Place,” Rogers says, and his arms are crossed as he watches Flint.“Here, you’ll find everything you want. You were a fan of libraries, as are the other people who live here, so there is a higher concentration of them than in other places.” 

 

“There are others?”

 

“The Good Place is divided into neighborhoods of similarly minded people,” Rogers says. “You, and the people who live here, like classic books, liberal politics, and aquatic activities. Others are for those who might like cities more, or enjoy reality television, or really love cold weather. There are sections that reflect those preferences.” 

 

It sounds very reasonable to him, but still, Flint squints around him, taking it all in. “Can we travel to other neighborhoods?” 

 

“Ah, no, unfortunately,” Rogers says, and although his words sound apologetic, his face still appears flat. “But I assure you, you’ll find everything you want and more here. Would you care for some frozen yogurt?” 

 

“No thanks,” Flint says. “So - my soulmate is here?” 

 

“Yes,” Rogers says, and he snaps again. Now they’re in the middle of a suburban neighborhood, with an eclectic arrangement of houses around them. Flint reels for a moment at the scenery change, to which Rogers frowns slightly. “This is about a ten-minute walk away from the town, but I figured that in order to save time, I would just bring us here now.Your soulmate’s house is here, and you’ll be living with him since you never had a strong preference on your own domestic architecture in your life.” 

 

Flint tries to think of whoever his soulmate might be. With a pang, he suddenly misses his and Thomas’s house back in London - the creaky door, the tall bookshelves (his demise be damned), the hideous green color of the bedroom that Thomas had loved so much. He swallows. “He’s here?”

 

“Yes,” Rogers says, “And you’re about to meet him.” He holds a hand out, directing Flint to one of the houses on the other side of the road. Flint is greeted by the sight of a tiny house, with bright red shutters, and a strange-shaped roof. Odd. “He was a fan of Icelandic primitive style, as you can see. Very efficient, and humble, like him.” 

  
Flint opens the door. 

 

There’s a man sitting on the couch. Flint sees his dark curly hair first, and then the man turns around. He’s handsome, young, with wide blue eyes, and a grin that stretches over his face. 

 

“You must be my soul mate,” the man says brightly, and Flint glances between him and Rogers as the man gets up from the couch to come over to them. “Welcome to our home!”

 

“This is James Flint,” Rogers says, stepping forward. “James Flint, this is - “

 

“Solomon Little,” the man says, and his grin stretches even larger on his face, if possible. “A pleasure.” 

 

“Solomon here was a human rights lawyer,” Rogers says, and Flint glances over at him. “He was born in Paris but traveled all over the world during his life. Solomon started a foundation to support homeless LGBT youth in his twenties, was on the shortlist for a Nobel Peace Prize, and like you, he shares an appreciation for  _ La bohème _ .”

 

“Ah yes,” the man says. “The opera. My true love.” He laughs, and it’s a little too loud for the cramped room. “Other than you, of course!”

 

“Solomon,” Rogers says then, “James here was in the Navy, and then he was a professor at an esteemed university for many years. He changed many students’ lives during his time, and he wrote many influential books on a variety of topics, garnered him much accord. He once saved an old woman’s life in the grocery store by administering CPR, despite it making him late to his own thesis defense, and left before anyone realized it was him.” 

 

“Hello, James,” the man says, turning his grin to Flint. “Lovely to meet you.” 

 

“Mr. Little,” Flint says flatly in greeting, and the man’s expression flickers for a moment.    
  


 

“Oh, please, call me Solomon,” the man says, recovering quickly. “We’re soulmates, after all!”

 

“Well, I’ll let you two catch up,” Rogers says, and he extends his arm as if to pat Flint on his back - but Flint shoots him a look before he can help himself, and Roger’s arm retracts. “Well. Welcome again, both of you.”

 

He disappears, and Flint takes a long moment taking in the space around them before his eyes turn back to the man in front of him. 

 

“He’s a bit creepy, isn’t he,” the man says after a moment. “But I suppose he’s well-meaning enough.” 

 

“You’re not my soulmate,” Flint says, and the man blinks at the aggressive tone, but Flint can’t bring himself to feel guilty. 

 

“What makes you say that?” 

 

“My soulmate is my husband,” Flint tells him, and he pushes past him, looking critically at the furniture as if it’s going to give him a clue of how he’s going to find Thomas. “I’m going to figure out how to get to him, since I know he died recently - “ 

 

“Jesus Christ,” the man says, and Flint turns just in time for the man’s expression to slide right off his face, replaced by a faintly annoyed look. “This - this is not what I expected.” 

 

“I know he’s here,” Flint snaps despite himself, turning back to him. “Listen, I’m sorry, that I’m not who you expected, but it’s nothing personal.” 

 

“You’re not sorry,” the man says, cutting him off, and Flint raises an eyebrow. His accent’s shifted too, as the man says, “But I’m not particularly sorry either, so there’s that.” 

 

That makes something stir inside him. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” the man says, and he glances around. The hair on the back of Flint’s neck rises, as the man takes a step closer. “If I tell you something - if we are each other’s soulmates - “

 

“We’re not,” Flint says. 

 

“But if we are,” the man says insistently, his eyes searching Flint as if to measure him up, “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?  _ Especially _ not Rogers?” 

 

“Sure,” Flint says. He can’t see the harm in it, after all. 

 

The man breathes in. Flint’s not sure what he expects, but it certainly isn’t the man exhaling, then saying quickly, “I’m not who they think I am. There’s been some sort of mistake.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“I’m not the man Rogers thinks I am,” the man says, and Flint realizes that the strange feeling that he had gotten as soon as the man had opened his mouth was him realizing that he was  _ lying,  _ only now, he wasn’t. “I hate Icelandic design, or whatever they call this - this  _ rubbish _ . I’ve never been to the opera a day in my life. The closest I’ve been to a Nobel Peace prize is when I stole a magazine that mentioned the nominations on the cover when it was raining and I needed an umbrella. I was born in Cardiff, for fork’s sake, and I died there too - hold on, why can’t I say fork -  _ fork _ \- fork!”

 

While the man seemingly anguishes over his lack of ability to swear, Flint blinks for the second time that day, reevaluating this situation in front of him and feeling as though by now, nothing is too strange. “Is that so,” he says.  

 

“This is bullshirt,” the man says. “I can’t forking swear!”

 

“Who are you?” Flint snaps, using his best commanding voice from years of shouting on board a ship. “Don’t lie to me.” 

 

“Not Solomon Little, that’s for sure,” the man says. “My name is John Silver. I  _ hate _ the name Solomon.” 

 

Unbelievable. His  _ soulmate _ \- or his fake soulmate, because Thomas is his soulmate, of that Flint is sure - is a lying idiot. What’s more, Flint might have just promised that he won’t, in fact, tell anyone about it.

 

His head’s starting to hurt. He’s not an expert at this whole Good Place thing, but he thinks that that might be a problem. 

  
  
“Well?” Silver prompts when Flint doesn’t say anything. “Please tell me you’re a man of your word and you’ll lie to Rogers for me. You were Navy, right? Nothing about the Navy against lying explicitly, right?”  

 

“I was a professor of ethics,” Flint says flatly, and Silver lets out a sharp laugh. 

  
  
“Ha! That’s a good one,” he says, and then pauses when Flint doesn’t change his expression. “Oh. You’re serious?” 

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Flint says. 

 

“Jesus Christ,” Silver says again. Once the grin is off his face, he looks less the bumbling fool Flint had first estimated him as, but something about the way his eyes dart around the room makes Flint feel on edge. “Well, this is a forked up situation, but at least I can take the Lord’s name in vain. Do you think God is real?”

 

  
•••

  
  


“So your husband is here,” Silver says, from where he’s seated across the room. “You’re sure of it?”

 

“Rogers said so before, and I can’t see how lying would benefit him in this,” Flint says, sitting with his elbows on his thighs on the couch that Silver had previously been occupied. This all has been - a lot to take in. 

 

He had started to go into one of the other rooms to think, but apparently, the real Solomon Little had a thing for  _ clowns _ and the entire bedroom was, quite frankly, terrifying in the sheer volume of grinning clown art.

 

Flint had silently elected to sit in the living room once again, to Silver’s knowing look. 

 

He adds, “This is supposed to be heaven, after all.” 

 

“You think your husband made it here?” Silver asks a little too casually, and Flint would strangle him if they weren’t dead already. “You know, to the Good Place. Apparently, it’s a very exclusive club. “

 

“Yes,” Flint grits out. “He’s a good man.  _ He  _ wouldn’t have to lie about what he did in his life.” 

 

Silver snorts. “Sometimes people lie for no reason,” he says, crossing his arms. Flint notices how the movement makes Silver’s shirt taut around his biceps, the seams over his broad shoulders pulling - he might be dead, but he’s not  _ dead _ . “I would know.”

 

“Tell me, are - were you ever honest?” 

 

“What kind of question is that?” 

 

“The one that I might ask when justifying why I should cover for you,” Flint snaps, dragging his eyes away from Silver’s shoulders finally. “ _ That’s _ what sort of question it is.”

 

“What, are you going to team up with Rogers, quite literally drag me to hell?” 

 

“I’m asking because I don’t trust you,” Flint tells him. “We don’t even know each other.”

 

“I’m a good person!” Silver insists, but he relents when Flint stares at him. “All right - okay, but I’m not an  _ awful  _ person - I don’t deserve to be in the Bad Place!”

 

"But you deserve to be here?" 

 

“For such a nice man’s soul mate, you’re kind of a dip,” Silver throws back, and it makes something clench in Flint’s chest. “A dip - oh, for fork’s sake.”    
  


 

They’re both silent for a few minutes, both of them glaring to opposite sides of the room. Somewhere outside, they can hear a car rolling by - new neighbors, perhaps - as the sun begins to set.

 

Flint takes a deep breath in and finally breaks the silence. “If I let you help me - “

 

  
“‘If’? There is literally no reason why my being here would harm you - “

 

“if Rogers finds out, then he could not only throw you out of this place, he could throw me out for hiding,” Flint points out without looking over at him. “I have a feeling this place has a very low tolerance for morally dubious behavior.” 

 

“You would throw me under the bus to secure your own place? That’s rather heartless,” Silver says, sounding rather hurt.    
  


“My husband is here,” Flint repeats, and he runs a hand over his face now. “I could care less about what happens to me, but I need to find him. What’s more, I wouldn’t want to jeopardize his position here.” 

 

“Huh,” Silver says, and Flint can feel his eyes on the side of his head. “You must really love him.”

 

“Generally, people love their husbands.”

 

“Yeah, well, not all the time,” Silver says. Flint does look up then, and he sees Silver makes an odd gesture - like he’s reaching into his jacket pocket, but then stops himself, meeting Flint’s gaze. “Listen, we can work something out.”

 

“We, will not be doing anything,” Flint says. “I’m going to figure out a way to one of the other neighborhoods, perhaps by taking Rogers hostage -”

 

“Whoa, slow down there,” Silver says, and he hops down from the tall chair he’d been perched on. “No hostages, not in the Good Place. It just feels wrong, and I’m going to guess if Rogers can snap his fingers and teleport, even all your red-haired fury isn’t going to get you very far here.” 

 

“What, do you have a better idea?” Flint gripes, as Silver comes to stand in front of him. “My husband - “

 

“Yes, yes, you’ve mentioned him once or twice,” Silver says. “But if I help you find your husband, in exchange, you’re going to cover for me.” 

 

“Why would I do that?”

 

“Because I may not be a human rights lawyer, but I do have some skills that you could use,” Silver says, “I don’t particularly want to be sent to the Bad Place, all right?"

 

"The Bad Place?" 

 

Silver waves dismissively. "I asked Rogers about it when I arrived here. There's a lot of screaming and nasty torture and all of that classic stuff. Now, at the very least, we’d make good partners in this - “

 

“No,” Flint says. “Listen, I won’t - I won’t  _ go  _ to Rogers, tell him about you, but I don’t need your help.” 

 

“I was a bounty hunter,” Silver says. “Best in the country.” 

 

Flint pauses. “Really?”

 

“Well, a con man, to be technical about it,” Silver says, and Flint stands up to leave, “But pretty similar when it comes down to it. A lot of knowledge about people, and finding the ones to trick.”

 

“I’ll find Thomas by myself,” Flint says, and he’s about to leave but something flashes over Silver’s expression. “ _ What _ ?” 

 

“Thomas - are you talking about Thomas Hamilton?” Silver says, and Flint stops. “Is that your husband’s name?”

 

“How do you know?” Flint asks, and something heavy like dread settles in his gut, especially when Silver is slow to respond. “So help me, you will tell me - “

 

“Are you going to tell Rogers about me?”    
  


“Tell me  _ now _ ,” Flint says, summoning all of the implicit threat he can manage in his voice, and Silver looks him over again before sighing. 

  
“I truly wonder how you got to be in the Good Place,” Silver says, then, “He’s in this neighborhood.”

 

“Take me to him.”

 

“Right now?” At whatever Flint’s expression is, Silver raises his hands, scowling. “All right. But I’m not going to console you if this is some other Thomas Hamilton. These mistakes happen, you know.”

 

  
•••

 

 

The sky outside has gone dark, but it’s still pleasantly warm, a light breeze buffering them as they walk down the street. “He was having some sort of party tonight,” Silver says. “That’ll get us into the house.” 

 

“A party?” 

 

“To welcome new residents, Rogers was going on about it when he brought me here,” Silver says, and he turns onto a road that has appeared, that appears to be leading up to some house. “I hope they have shrimp.” 

 

Similarly, Flint wonders if he can get still drunk in the Good Place. “We’re going to find Thomas,” he says firmly, more to himself than to the man beside him, “And then, so help all of us, you can go live under your fake name for the rest of eternity.” 

 

“I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again,” Silver says, and he raises an unashamed eyebrow when Flint sends him a look. “What? Faking your own death certainly gets you out of those annoying email chains. Don’t pretend like you haven’t at least thought about it.” 

 

“Ethics professor,” Flint reminds him. 

 

“Right,” Silver says, “I forgot, you’re  _ boring _ ,” but before Flint can come up with a retort, they make it to the top of the driveway, and the trees part to reveal the house. 

 

Well, less house, more mansion. There are Corinthian orders, green ivy climbing up the sides of the house that are visible as they gaze up at it, tiny blue and yellow flowers dotting the neat lawn. People are coming in and out of the house, most of them holding glasses or talking animatedly in little groups, and from inside, they can hear jazz music playing. 

 

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Flint realizes that this is  _ exactly  _ the sort of house Thomas would dream of living in - his heaven. He can feel Silver looking at him, as he tries to remember how to breathe. 

 

“Well, given the look on your face that looks like you’ve swallowed an egg, I’d say this is your husband’s style,” Silver muses. “Still want to go in?”   
  


 

Flint pushes by him, and he can hear Silver mutter under his breath, but still, he follows him into the house.

 

He has to find Thomas.

 

  
•••

  
  


It had been a strange few days, all considering. Silver had woken up on a strange couch in a strange room, and there had been a creepy grinning man in front of him telling him  _ everything is fine _ , but also  _ you’ve died and now you’re in the Good Place _ . 

 

Silver hadn’t tried to escape, but that’s only because Rogers had then gone off raving about his work as a lawyer and charity and how he was just an all-around outstanding citizen. Which had promptly tipped Silver off, after all, that there had been  _ some sort of massive mistake _ .

 

And it got worse, because now apparently his soulmate’s some Navy asshole who’s married to some other asshole. And he can’t even say asshole out loud, which is rather high on the list of tragedies these past few days. 

 

His fake soulmate is stiff at his side as they make their way through the people milling about in the party. Usually, Silver likes these sorts of things - there’s always some sort of expensive silverware to steal, at the very least - but the man next to him brings as much joyful presence as the flu. 

 

He sees Rogers milling by one of the corners, and on reflex, he swerves them so that they head into one of the other rooms away from him. This one has an ornate crystal chandelier that makes Silver squint for a moment at the ceiling when they step into.

 

“I don’t see him,” the man mutters from his side.

 

Silver’s pretty sure he can’t actually get  _ hungry _ here, but while the man cranes his head around the crowd, a waiter passes by them carrying a full plate of shrimp. “I’ll be taking that,” Silver tells him, sending him a bright grin as the waiter willingly hands him the platter. “Hey - hey, you - uh, Fred- Frank - “

 

“Flint,” the man mutters, then turns to look at him incredulously. “You can’t at least remember my name?” 

 

“Make yourself a name tag then,” Silver tells him, matter of factly, and he puts one of the giant shrimp in his mouth. “Holy shirt, these are good.”

 

Flint sends him an unimpressed look. “Control yourself.”

 

"Sometimes, you have to appreciate the finer things in life," Silver says. "That reminds me of an ex. She really didn't like me in the end, so she put a fish in my car, left it there to stink up the interior." 

 

"What did you do?" Flint asks, looking like he's barely paying attention to Silver. 

 

"Me? Well, I didn't find the fish for a few weeks, unfortunately - "

 

"No, I meant, what did you do to her?" 

 

"I, ah, might have slept with her brother," Silver says, and he raises his hands at Flint's look, licking shrimp juice off his thumb. "What? He was _incredibly_  fit, and I thought what I had with her was much more relaxed. I'll admit, that was on me - hey, now that's not too bad, right?" 

 

The other man snorts. "You really don't get it, do - " but then he goes rigid at something he sees over Silver’s shoulder. Silver follows his gaze, chewing on a shrimp tail as he does so, and he sees a tall blonde man in the middle of a group of people. 

 

“That your husband?” he asks - like Flint’s doesn’t look like some handsome stroke victim  by the way his face has gone slack. “Flint?” 

 

Luckily, Flint doesn’t have to knock down the waiter carrying a plate of tiny meatballs on toothpicks, for then the blonde man must see them, and he makes his way over to them. He’s wearing an impeccably tailored blue suit, with an intricately patterned tie that makes Silver feel three shades of underdressed just standing by him. 

 

“Oh, hello,” the man says, his teeth a touch too white, and beside him, Silver can feel the man beside him stiffen even more. “You must be the newcomers - Mr. Little and Mr. Flint, is it? My name is Thomas Hamilton, the host of this fine festivity.”

 

Well, this doesn’t bode well. 

 

Flint is in no state to reply, so Silver says, “Ah, yes. My name’s Solomon, and this here is - uh- darling, why don’t you introduce yourself- “

 

“James,” Flint says hoarsely, and Silver reaches down, takes his hand, but Flint’s hand is limp in his, as he stares, wide-eyed, up at Thomas. “I’m - I’m James, James Flint - Thomas - “

 

“A pleasure,” Thomas says, and he gives them a wide smile that Silver recognizes - he’s seen that smile before in the mirror - and Silver has to hide a wince because if he’s just annoyed at the fake party host smile, Flint must be ready to throw himself out the window because apparently, it is his husband, but his husband doesn’t recognize him - what kind of place is this? “I think we live near each other, don’t we?”   
  


 

“We live down the street,” Silver says, “In the house with the red windows.”

 

“Oh, that _ tiny _ house!” Thomas enthuses, looking at him. Silver decides that he doesn’t like Thomas Hamilton very much at all when the tall man adds, “It’s just  _ adorable _ , isn’t it? I mean, I admire your ability to have such a humble place here, when you could have  _ anything _ , but you choose to limit yourself. It’s so admirable.”

 

“I’ve been called humble many times,” Silver repeats blandly. “I’m the most humble person ever.” 

 

Thomas turns to Flint, who’s still staring at him. “You know, I was just talking to Woodes Rogers - the entity who controls the place? And he told me the most  _ shocking _ thing.” 

 

Flint’s not answering, so Silver says, “Do tell?” 

 

“Well,” Thomas says, lowering his voice conspiratorially and leaning in, like he can look inconspicuous despite the fact his hair is stupidly immaculate and he’s the tallest person in this room, “He told me that there’s some sort of glitch in this neighborhood. Something to do with someone  _ who’s not supposed to be here _ .” 

  
Silver carefully regulates his breathing. Since he’s pretty sure Flint’s morally opposed to lying or something, he’s glad that the other man appears to be comatose for a second so that he can say, “Oh, how is that even possible?” 

 

Thomas shakes his head, straightening up again. “I don’t know. Mr. Rogers was awfully cagey about it all - but isn’t that a terrifying thought, that someone terrible has ended up here instead?”

 

“It’s a nice house,” Flint blurts out, and Silver and Thomas turn to look at him. Apparently, his brain has just restarted. “Your house. It’s very nice.” 

 

Thomas beams, and then to make things somehow worse, he says, “Oh, you both are so sweet - and you’re just so short!” To Silver’s horror, he reaches out and taps the bridge of Silver’s nose. “I mean, just look at that! Mr. Flint, you must lose him all the time!”

 

“Wow,” Silver says, “You certainly just did that.”

 

“I did,” Thomas says, sounding much too cheerful, and then he lands the killing blow. “Well, much to do. I’ll have to introduce you to my soulmate some time, but I see we’re running low on shrimp. I held one once in London with a similar theme - plenty of crustacean appetizers, you see - and David Attenborough said it was the most delicious fun he’s ever had at a human party.”

 

“Yes, well,” Silver says, tugging on Flint’s hand, but he’s not  _ moving _ , “The shrimp are pretty spicy.”

 

“I’ll see the two of you around now, shall I?” Thomas says, and when he turns around, Flint finally lets out the smallest, pained noise, eyes following the blond man. 

 

Silver squeezes his hand, though, as they watch Thomas glide away. “Well, your husband’s kind of an ashpole,” he says after a moment, and he glances over at Flint. “You still alive there? Well, you know what I mean - “

 

Flint’s eyes snap to his, and he looks furious now. Better than the dead-eyed look he had going on back there, but still, Silver takes an instinctive step back. 

 

“Shut up,” Flint growls, and he wrenches his hand out of Silver’s. “You don’t know me.”

 

“Well, I might be the only friend you have in this place - “   
  


 

“You are  _ certainly  _ not my  _ friend -  _ “

 

“- oh, _well then_ , I’ll guess I’ll stop saving you these shrimp after all - “

 

“Stop stealing the shrimp!”

 

“Keep your forking voice down!” Silver hisses, worried for a moment that Rogers will pop out of nowhere like the world’s most fucked-up whack-a-mole, but no one seems to be paying them too much attention. “This party might be rivaling my cousin’s bar mitzvah in terms of unpleasant surprises - and it started well, but then my sister’s girlfriend let her parrot loose - and that, I assure you, is not a euphemism - “ 

 

“Get to the point,  _ would you  _ \- “

 

“- right,” Silver says. “Time to test something, at least.” He flags down a waiter going by who’s carrying a platter of champagne. Silver takes two flutes, and Flint does the same after a moment. 

 

“My husband doesn’t know who I am,” Flint says mournfully, staring into the bubbling liquid, as Silver downs one of the glasses. “He has another  _ soulmate _ .” 

 

“Listen, that must be terrible and all,” Silver says, “But I’m looking at eternal damnation, so I think I win this round.”

 

“I’d rather be in the Bad Place,” Flint says, gulping down his glass. 

 

“There, there, prof,” Silver says, awkwardly patting his shoulder the best he can with a glass of champagne in his other hand. He itches to reach for his lighter but knows that’s futile anyway. “Hold on.” 

 

He downs his other glass, putting both on one of the side tables before saying, “We’re going to work out what’s exactly going on with Prince Charming over there, and we’ll get you set up in your mansion.” He snags the full champagne glass Flint still has in his hand and drinks that too. “Let’s see what this does, and then we’ll plan our way out of this clusterfork.” 

 

Flint’s still staring at him, so Silver plucks both glasses from him, setting them down next to his. “Now, let’s escape from this joint before I have to brain myself because of this music,” Silver says, and when he turns around, Flint follows him. 

 

His mind’s already whirling, and it helps that the champagne seems to make him feel looser already. Apparently, he can get drunk here, and so Silver lets his shoulder bump into Flint’s as they exit.

 

 

•••

  
  


The air’s still pleasantly warm like before, as they walk back to the house. Silver is miraculously quiet, as Flint processes the evening, thankful for the silence. 

 

Thomas had looked at him like he was a stranger. It was him - Flint can  _ feel  _ it in his bones, that it’s him - but something is wrong. Whatever it is, it preoccupies him long enough so that he looks up when Silver stops, and they’re already back at the house.

 

“Home sweet home,” Silver says, holding open the door for him. Flint takes it, closes it behind him as Silver jams his hands in his pocket, making his way over to the kitchen island. 

 

“Hey - for what’s it worth, I’m sorry about your husband.”  Silver’s staring intently at one of the clown posters when Flint looks at him, but then he glances over to meet Flint’s gaze. “You all right?” 

 

“We need to talk,” Flint says instead. 

 

Silver goes wide-eyed at that, and so Flint adds, “I’m not going to tell Rogers. But it has occurred to me that if you’re here, that might mean that the actual Solomon Little is somewhere out there.”

 

“He’s probably in the Bad Place, then,” Silver says, and luckily, he has the decency to cringe after he says it. Flint waits until he says, “I see your point.” 

 

“You’re going to be better here,” Flint tells him then. “You’re going to - stop lying, stop stealing things - I don’t know, whatever else you do. If this place has any sort of higher ethical standing - I won’t risk it on you doing something stupid.”

 

“Stealing things? What do you think I’ve stolen?” Flint crosses the room in response, and Silver takes a step back, pressing against the kitchen island. “Now, hang on - “

 

Flint reaches into his jacket, looking Silver right in the eye as he pulls out two forks - likely solid gold, given their weight -  and several shrimp fall out when he does so. 

 

“Stop stealing things,” Flint repeats, as Silver’s forced to tilt his head up to look at him. He drops the forks on the table behind them, not breaking eye contact. They land with two thuds on the island. Flint wipes his hand on his shirt, the shrimp now on the ground between them. Silver’s eyes are even bluer up close when Flint says, “Those are my terms.” 

 

“That sounds very reasonable,” Silver says, and his voice hitches a bit, especially when Flint doesn’t move away at first. “I’ve, ah, never been good, though. It’s going to have to take some - effort.” 

 

“Well,” Flint says, and Silver’s eyes dip down a little, and Flint  _ definitely _ doesn’t look any lower than Silver’s eyes, “You’re going to have to try, won’t you?”

 

Silver huffs at that, and he finally twists to get away from him - and it doesn’t escape Flint that he carefully doesn’t touch him. He’s not sure if he’s glad or disappointed - and  _ that _ is a thought that makes him want another dozen stiff drinks. “You just had to take my shrampies, didn’t you?” 

 

Flint says, “And you’re never going to say ‘shrampies’ ever again.”

 

  
•••

  
  


“Frank! Ah, shirt- I mean Flint!” Silver’s voice is right next to his ear, and Flint jolts upright from where he’d been sleeping on the couch. “Wake up!”

 

“Jesus forking Christ,” Flint mumbles, wiping a hand over his face. “What is it?” 

 

“So I was thinking about what you were saying,” Silver says, and he leaps over the couch to take a seat - Flint watching distastefully as he props his shoes on the cushion - “About being good, or whatever.” 

 

“I’m glad you were thinking about it,” Flint says, dry. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, but then I went out to smoke - “

 

“You can smoke here?” Flint himself hasn’t smoked in years, but something about the neighborhood doesn’t quite strike him as the place to have ashtrays. Thomas had disliked it, and it had been the main reason he had quit back in his life. 

 

“I can’t!” Silver near-shouts, and Flint grimaces. “Sorry. But ever since I figured out that I can’t, in fact, light a cigarette here, it got me thinking.”

 

“Shocking.”

 

“Listen to me,” Silver says urgently, “I was out there, unable to light a cigarette once again, and then I said to myself,  _ No smoking, not even now? What is this hell _ ?” He looks at Flint expectantly. 

 

Flint tries to stifle his yawn, especially when Silver doesn’t continue. “And -?” 

 

Then it hits him, and he's wide awake. “Oh.”

 

“Exactly,” Silver says. 

  
  
“ _ Oh _ . You mean - “

 

“Rogers,” Silver says, “Did you get a strange feeling around him?” 

 

“Are you suggesting -” 

 

“This isn’t the Good Place,” Silver says. “Your husband forgetting you, me being trapped with you - “

 

“You being my soulmate, not him,” Flint says faintly, realization dawning. “This is the Bad Place.”

 

There’s a beat. “Hey, does this still mean I have to try to be good?” Silver asks.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this just in: these kids are Terrible

“If you don’t stop eating those,” Flint says, eerily calm as a man who’s about to attempt homicide can sound, “We’re going to find out if you can die again in this place shortly.”

 

Silver sticks one of his fingers in his mouth, loudly slurping off the sauce - or whatever is on those disgusting-looking shrimp - as he does so. “What, in a place where I can supposedly eat as many of these and not gain a pound? Uh, I think I’ll continue, thanks.” 

 

“Then eat them _silently_.”

 

“I’m showing my mouth appreciation,” Silver says. “These ones have white chocolate sauce on them - odd, I know, but it’s growing on me - "

 

Flint tells himself he shouldn’t break the pencil in his hand - or bury it in the back of Silver’s large hand from where it’s nearly getting stains on the paper in front of him. He shoots another glare at the man, who at least seems to have the decency to slurp a little quieter at the look. 

 

He turns back to the map when looking at Silver for any longer makes his head feel like it’s going to explode. Flint mutters to himself as he draws, “The main square - the yogurt shop - “

 

“If you’re trying to make a map of this place, why don’t I help?” Silver asks, finally putting down his handful of shrimp. Flint tries not to wince when he touches the paper, leaving oily fingerprints. “You’ve forgotten there’s a pretzel garden between the yogurt shop and the puppy playground."

 

“I thought you were a con man, not an architect,” Flint says snidely, but he picks up the eraser when he realizes that Silver is right. Not that he would ever say it out loud. 

 

“Hey, your con is only as good as your plans,” Silver says. “Once drew a bank vault two feet to the side from where it was actually. Made the point man trying to get to the door nearly run into the wall when he couldn’t see through the smoke."

 

He stops erasing. “You were a _bank robber_?” 

 

“I sold the schematics to a bank robber,” Silver says, and there’s half-eaten shrimp visible in his mouth, and really, Flint should be so _much_ more disgusted as he swallows, his long throat working before continuing, “And there _is_  a difference, thank you very much, Professor.” 

 

Flint ignores that. He can feel how Silver is watching him with the sort of intensity that he thinks is usually reserved for bomb technicians, as Flint continues to sketch out the map, the only sound being the occasional smack of Silver’s lips as he continues eating. 

 

If this is truly the Bad Place, he needs to know the layout of the place they’re dealing with. The morning after the revelation had seen Flint rising early in the morning - even in fake-Heaven, his routine from the Navy trumped sleeping in - and finding a big enough piece of paper to attempt a map.  

 

Silver’s sitting close enough so that when he shifts, Flint can feel his breath on the side of his face. He resists the urge to look up. 

 

“No,” Silver says as Flint starts to add in the road leading into their neighborhood that he vaguely remembers, and he points again. “You forgot the koi pond.”

 

“There’s a koi pond? _”_

 

“Wealthy people like their koi,” Silver says. “Did you not have a koi pond?” 

 

“Stop saying koi,” Flint says. “And I was hardly _wealthy_ , I was a _professor -_ "

 

Silver snorts. “How many shirts did you own?” 

 

“What sort of question is that?”

 

“If it was more than three, you were posh money, that’s just a fact,” Silver tells him, hopping down from where he was perched on the table. Flint can’t believe that he could _ever_  think that this was the Good Place, not when the source of his next death adds, “Don’t forget that there’s a sharp turn that leads up the hill, before you get to the Hamilton estate.” 

 

“I remember,” Flint says crossly, even though he hadn’t. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

 

“What, are you asking if I have any banks to rob before brunch?” 

 

“No,” Flint says, although, from the way Silver rolls his eyes, he wonders what would happen if the man tried to steal anything. “You’re bothering me.”

 

“Well, I don’t think it’s the best idea for me to be wandering around town, is it?” Silver points it. “I don’t want to be trapped here any more than you do.”

 

“Oh,  _believe me_ , I don’t wish to be here with you one bit,” Flint says under his breath. Silver hears it, though, and he scoffs, swallowing the last of his handful of shrimp. “Why don’t you take a walk?”

 

“No shrimp if I go out,” Silver says, and as he extends his hand to under the vending-machine like contraption that had been propped up on the counter, and more shrimp tumble down into his hand. He seems to have a better handle on this - procurement thing, than Flint does, much to his irritation. The man had stumbled out from the bedroom and said something to the effect of _I wonder if shrimp machines exist,_  and it had appeared right there in their living room. 

 

Flint works a little more on the map - trying to remember the number of hedges that lined the road up to their own house before Silver clears his throat obnoxiously. “Yes?” 

 

“What if I went out for you?” Silver suggests. “I could do some renaissance for you.”

 

“You mean  reconnaissance?”

 

“I already regret offering, but yes,” Silver tells him. “Since you’ve been agonizing over that thing for a while. I’d say it’s the whole husband-with-another-soulmate thing that’s making you look like that, but it might actually just be your personality.” 

 

“This is important,” Flint snaps. “More important than, say, gorging myself on _shrimp_ and not knowing when to _shut my mouth_.” 

 

“It’s not my fault that I’m taking full advantage of this situation here!"

 

“You have no one to care about but yourself,” Flint points out, and Silver’s mouth shuts. “I, on the other hand, have to worry about jeopardizing not only my place here, but my husband’s.” 

 

“Your ex-husband, you mean,” Silver says pointedly, and Flint stands up fast enough so that his chair screeches when it gets pushed back.  

 

He doesn’t say anything, though, trying to resist from throwing the table or something that Thomas would have called "dramatic _"_. Silver, on his end, has abandoned the shrimp in favor of clenching his fists, his jaw tight. 

 

“I’m going to take that walk I think,” Silver says when Flint doesn’t open his mouth. “Have fun with your map."

 

Flint grits his teeth, and despite himself - “I thought you said you shouldn’t be wandering around?”

 

“I’m going to be taking a nice neighborhood walk, _dear_ ,” Silver says. “Unless Rogers is hiding in our rose bushes, I think I’ll manage. Look at that, I’m taking your advice - isn’t that a sign of personal growth that’s _so_ important to you?“

 

The door slams behind him. Flint resists the urge to go over and break the shrimp machine.

 

 

 

•••

 

 

Flint is _infuriating_. Silver had prided himself on a few things in his life - one of them being he’s not easily perturbed by others, but Flint seems to have an uncanny ability to know just what to say to make him so _angry -_

 

The Bad Place. He should’ve guessed that he was there the moment he saw the frown on that man’s face. He knew soulmates were bullshit, anyways. 

 

On some rash impulse, Silver kicks out, striking a flower pot with his foot. It doesn’t hurt, but the clatter is soon followed by someone saying, “Are you all right?’

 

“Uh,” Silver says, looking over and seeing Thomas Hamilton. “Was - was that your flower pot?”

 

“Well,” Hamilton says, setting down a watering can. He’s dressed in some ridiculously pristine outfit considering he’s gardening - white linen pants and an expensive-looking shirt that Silver is sure he’s seen on the back of some fashion magazine. “It was.” 

 

“Apologies,” Silver says, “There was - a bee. In my shoe. It got out just then. Little bastard.” 

 

“Oh dear,” Hamilton says. “Can I offer you something to drink? I know that when I once had a snake slither into my boot when I was volunteering in Nepal, having a cup of tea soothed my nerves and let me go back to helping the orphans.” 

 

Silver contemplates just walking away. But he does have a cover to keep - and Solomon Little would probably accept, instead of breaking another flower pot on the ground just to stop Hamilton from continuing the words coming out of his mouth. “Uh. That’d be great, thanks.” 

 

So that’s how he finds himself in the Hamilton estate once again, sitting awkwardly on one of the fine couches, as Thomas brings them both a teapot and cups. “Sugar?” the man asks. 

 

“Heaps, if you will,” Silver says, and he watches as Thomas ladles spoonfuls into the cup. 

 

“I’m not one for added sugar myself,” Thomas says, “I never much liked sweet food back in my life. Something so refreshing about eating cleanly, right?”  

 

“Sure,” Silver says after a moment, taking the cup from him. “Cheers.”

 

They drink for a few moments in silence. Silver’s usually not one for silences, per say, so he starts, “So, uh, how’s the afterlife treating you?”

 

“Oh, very well, thank you,” Thomas says. “There’s so much time to garden now.”

 

“Ah.” 

 

“Allow me to apologize for the mess as well,” Thomas says. Silver looks around at the immaculate-looking room. “I’ll admit, this house gets rather lonely, so I decided to have an early start and do some gardening rather than tidying up this morning."

 

“Your soulmate not around?”

 

Thomas blinks at Silver as if caught mid-thought, setting his cup down. “Ah, well, my soulmate seems to be gone most of the time,” he says. “She seems to be a… freer spirit than I. She likes to take long walks by herself, I believe."

 

“She?” Silver asks before he can help himself. “I mean, I would’ve guessed - I mean, not that I meant to make an assumption, but, well- “

 

“That my soulmate would’ve been a man?” Thomas finishes for him, wryly. “Yes, I was quite surprised when Woodes Rogers brought it up. But if she’s who’s meant for me, well, how can argue with that?”

 

“Really,” Silver says. “You just accepted it, like that?”

 

“Love can take place in many forms,” Thomas says. 

 

“So you weren’t  - ?“ 

 

“Gay?” Thomas finishes for him. “Oh, I am. Very much so.” 

 

Silver spins his cup in his hands. “Did you have a husband - boyfriend, partner? During your life?” 

 

“You know, I’m not entirely sure,” Thomas muses, and Silver has to make sure he doesn’t let anything slip across his face. “When I first woke up here, Woodes told me that there was some glitch in this place, and I likely would not recover all of my memories. But I have my soulmate now, and that’s just -  lovely." 

 

_Woodes._ Silver picks up his teacup. “You’re on a first name basis with Rogers, then?”

 

“Yes, he’s been very helpful in allowing me to refurbish this place,” Thomas says, waving around him. “When I got here, it was a _disaster -_ I mean, chenille curtains in marigold? What is this, 1996?” 

 

He laughs, and Silver imitates the sound after a moment. “Oh, horrifying,” Silver says with the sort of intonation that he hopes to never hear out of his mouth again, and he wonders if Solomon Little would spike his tea. 

 

“So did you have anyone in your life before here?” Thomas asks him. “Girlfriend, boyfriend?”

 

“Ah, not really,” Silver says, “I mean - yes, at some points, I had this on-and-off thing- and uh, there were others - “ He thinks about Madi’s smile for a moment, the one that she would do when he was trying to make her laugh, and she tried to be annoyed but couldn’t just quite shake him off - before he forces the thought away. Now’s not the time for that. “I mean, not _tons_ of others. A healthy amount. You know how it is." 

 

“Ah, yes, I suppose you were a busy man with what, your charity and all," Thomas says soothingly. "And you’re with your soulmate now - Mr. Flint, right?” 

 

“Yes,” Silver says, and because he’s really not a bad man, _really_ , he adds, “He’s very - passionate, actually. I think you'd like him. He probably has strong opinions on curtains too." 

 

“Hmm,” Thomas says. “Between you and me, Mr. Little - “

 

“John, please,” Silver says without thinking, and he covers it with, “It’s my nickname. Never been too fond of the name Solomon, yeah?” 

 

Thomas looks inordinately pleased with that. “John. Between us, I’ll admit that Mr. Flint did not seem too fond of me.” 

 

Now Silver has to try his best not to choke. “Uh,” he says eloquently. “Oh, I don’t think that, _really_. “

 

“He barely said a word to me at the party,” Thomas says, leaning back, and looking every bit the spoiled, handsome prince. “And people love me! My teachers at Eton said that I was a rare delight."

 

Silver searches for his words carefully. “He’s having a bit of a rough go of all of this, I think. I wouldn’t take it too personally."

 

“Oh, that’s very kind of you to say,” Thomas says, and he gives John a smile. “I must say, it’s nice to see soulmates getting along so well.”

 

Silver thinks that if he opens his mouth, he’ll start laughing hysterically. “Hmm,” he manages, drinking more of his tea. 

 

“Yes, I imagine it’s quite an experience,” Thomas says somewhat faintly, and he reaches up as if to adjust his perfectly groomed hair before his eyes focus on Silver once again.  “I’m thinking about hosting a dinner tomorrow night, actually, for my closest neighbors."

 

“Oh,” Silver says. “That’s nice.”

 

“Shall I expect you and Mr. Flint?” Thomas inquires. “It would be nothing too formal, but it will be nice to make some friends this way, don’t you think?” 

 

“Sure,” Silver says. “We’d be thrilled."

 

“Excellent,” Thomas says, and he picks up his teacup. “Now, John, are you much of a reader?” 

 

 

 

•••

 

 

The first time he met Thomas, Flint was six months out from his early retirement from the Navy. He had just gotten to the point where the thrill of being back in the real world has worn off, and dull panic had set in its place, deep in his bones. 

 

Flint had opened his eyes each morning at oh-six-hundred on the dot, showered, brushed his teeth, and then he was left with all this _time_ on his hands. The possibilities stretched ahead of him were endless, and yet he felt so lost all the time.

 

Miranda had suggested that he get a dog. “You just need to find some sort of purpose,” she had told him over wine one night. They were sitting together on his worn couch, Miranda’s heels discarded to the side. “Something to keep you alive.” 

 

She herself had been out of the Navy for two years by then, and like always, decades wiser than him. “I am alive,” Flint had told her, the glass cool in his palms. 

 

“Living, then,” Miranda had said, and then she had spared him in favor of talking about her latest fling, some woman who she had met through work. 

 

Miranda was the only person that Flint could talk to about how he just felt so adrift - she had been there, after all, before getting her job at the museum, and she had thrown herself into the work with the same sort of passion he had seen in her when they were both officers together. He thinks that in another life, they would’ve grown old together, bickering and talking about exes and drinking on that couch until the end of their days, and they would have been rather happy like that. 

 

There had been some sort of gala at the museum that weekend, and Miranda had dragged him as her date. Flint had been fidgeting in his rented tuxedo as Miranda had gotten them drinks, and he had turned his head when someone had dropped a glass, and, well, he saw him. 

 

Thomas had been at the gala since he was on the museum's board of directors, and when Flint saw Miranda head back towards him with that  _stunning_  man, he had nearly jumped into the fountain. But then the man had looked at him and smiled, and Flint knew that he had found something to live for - that in that moment, it was the start of something beautiful. 

 

He never quite got around to getting that dog, but as he fell in love with Thomas, he wasn’t so angry anymore. Miranda had been their witness at their wedding, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue as Flint had held onto Thomas’s hands nearly too tightly. Thomas, in a rare moment of non-eloquence, had stumbled over his vows following Flint’s heartfelt ones, his cheeks rosy with happiness as they grinned at each other so hard that Flint could feel his face starting to hurt. 

 

He realizes now that Miranda had to go to both of their funerals.

 

Since the dark thoughts won’t leave him, Flint pours himself a glass of wine. That’s one good thing he’ll say about Solomon Little - despite his terrifying taste in clown-related artwork, he has good taste with expensive reds. 

 

But he barely has the chance to raise the glass to his lips before the door flies open. 

 

“Wow. It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?” Silver says, closing the door behind him. “Not that I’m going to judge. We have any fizzy water to cut that with?” 

 

Flint takes a long drink. 

 

“I took a long loop back,” Silver says when Flint focuses on finishing his glass. “The neighborhood goes on for about, oh, ten blocks or so.” When Flint opens his eyes, he sees that Silver’s already scrawling on the paper he left out on the table. “Then there’s this stretch of land, sort of looks like the countryside meets the Grand Canyon. Didn’t have my hiking shoes with me, but it looks like it goes on pretty far.” 

 

Flint’s genuinely surprised when he comes over and Silver’s notes actually look helpful. “And on the other side?” 

 

“Well, there’s the town, and it looks like there's a huge hedge that cuts it off,” Silver says. “I don’t know if there’s anything on the other side. Worth a look, right?”  

 

“Yes,” Flint says, and they both look at each other. Flint sets the empty glass down on the table. “Thank you.” 

 

Then Silver promptly squanders that small amount of goodwill. “I had tea with your ex-husband before my adventures today.”

 

Flint frowns. “Would you stop calling him that?”

 

“Fine, your husband-who-doesn’t-remember-you-in-the-afterlife. He’s something else, I’ll say.”

 

“And what does _that_ mean?”

 

“Nothing bad,” Silver hurries, “Just - he’s forking intense, you know? Forking - ugh - you know I mean forking, right?"

 

“Yes.”

 

“And then he was grilling me on my political opinions, my view some philosopher - he asked me who my favorite author was, and I panicked and said the Spice Girls."

 

“Mel B did write an autobiography,” Flint says before he can stop himself. 

 

“Ha,” Silver says. “I knew you’d be a Scary Spice fan. Did you read that in your book club, then?” 

 

Flint refuses to answer on principle. “Why were you having tea with Thomas?” 

 

“He invited me,” Silver says like it’s obvious. “We’re going to his place for dinner tomorrow.”

 

“What?”

 

“Hey, this could be your chance to win him back. I buttered him up for you and everything.” 

 

“And his soulmate?” Flint asks though it feels like pulling teeth out of his mouth just to say the words. 

 

“Wasn’t there,” Silver says. “She’s some sort of hippie, I think."

 

“He likes having people around,” Flint says then, and he goes back to the counter so that Silver can’t see what he’s sure is coming across his face. “Wine?” 

 

“Sure,” Silver says, and he takes a seat on the couch as Flint pours, schooling his features before he comes back. “There’s something else that came up at tea time.”

 

“Oh?” 

 

“Well to start, your husband’s best friends with Rogers, who might possibly be the devil if our ideas prove correct.” 

 

“Silver.” 

 

“Thomas told me that Rogers said that there was some sort of glitch in this place,” Silver says. “Thomas doesn’t remember all of his life, let alone you.”

 

“A glitch,” Flint repeats. “Like a software glitch?” 

 

“Like the sort of thing that might have meant me ending up here,” Silver says. “The sort of thing that paired you up with Solomon Little. If this is the Bad Place - “

 

“It is.”

 

“- if all of this is somehow set up so that we’re all miserable, then that would make it sound like Rogers is in control of this place.” 

 

Flint’s mind works. “Are you suggesting that Rogers has crafted all of this?” 

 

“I think that he meant for us to believe it was the Good Place,” Silver says, “And we figured it out. He or whoever’s in charge of this place might have wiped Thomas’s memories of you, which only hurts you as far as I can tell. Thomas has a renegade soulmate, which makes him upset, I don’t know. Then of course, I’m stuck with you - “

 

“ _Hey_ - “

 

“Plus, if I’m being honest with myself, I felt a little guilty at the thought that I might be replacing poor Solomon for a while back there,” Silver says. “At least now I know that he might not even be a real person."

 

Flint snorts. “You, guilty?” 

 

“And just like that, my point’s been proven once again,” Silver mutters. “That might have been what was supposed to eat away at me. Maybe he knew that I’d tell you that I wasn’t Solomon. Either way, it all fits together so that we’re all torturing each other. It’s rather brilliant, which begs the question as to what is the point of all of this?” 

 

“It’s all very  _Huis Clos._ ”

 

“You read that after Mel B, then?”

 

Flint turns this over in his head as Silver drinks some of the wine. “You think Rogers - whatever he is - engineered all of this to torture us?”

 

“I know it,” Silver says. “It’s what makes sense. And if we can discover a way to - so help me - defeat the system, without Rogers catching on, maybe that’s the key to getting your husband back, and I can enjoy a shrimp-filled utopia without wondering when it’s going to all come crashing down around me.” 

 

“Maybe we’re supposed to have figured it out,” Flint says. “Maybe this uncertainty is what the true torture is. The not knowing is what keeps us awake at night, from now until the end of time, as we are trapped in a hell of our own creation.”

 

“Well, that’s dark,” Silver says. 

 

 

•••

 

 

They retire to other sides of the house for the evening, which suits Flint just fine. He finds a bookshelf that has some of his favorites on it, even though his mind is too preoccupied to do much more than flip through the pages as Silver putters around in one of the other rooms.  

 

When he comes back out into the living room, Flint glances up. Silver seems to have found a record player in the meantime, setting it up and sitting with his legs crossed on the carpet. He cringes, already dreading whatever Silver likes listening to to be blasted through it - but when Johnny Cash plays instead, he quirks an eyebrow.  

 

“What?” Silver says, fiddling with the needle for a moment. “Ring of Fire makes me feel things.” 

 

Eventually, Flint falls asleep on the couch to the sounds of Silver humming under his breath, not altogether unpleasant, his fingers lightly drumming in a muted rhythm against the rug. 

 

 

••• 

 

“Come on,” Silver says. “Who doesn’t like frozen yogurt?” 

 

“I’m neutral about it,” Flint replies. They’re sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the town, having nothing better to do while they try to come up with a way to, as Silver put it, ‘defeat the system’ before they can go over to Thomas’s to have dinner.  

 

“We’re all neutral about it,” Silver points out. He has on a pair of mirrored sunglasses that Flint feels the urge to throw in the gutter each time they wiggle on his face when Silver raises his eyebrows. “It’s a neutral food. You, though, seem to have a distaste for it. What, you choke on a gummy bear once?” 

 

“I don’t feel like eating.”  

 

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”  

 

“I’m not hungry.” 

 

“If you somehow manage to starve in fake-Heaven, that’s an admittedly next-level sort of commitment to stubbornness.” Silver pops a piece of cookie in his mouth. “So what’s the plan, prof?" 

 

“We’ll go to the dinner, and then we’ll start preparing to map out the far side of town,” Flint says, looking over Silver’s head. He’s realized that if this whole place is set up as their own personal hell, there’s a good chance that everyone around them - from Joji and Joshua, the nice-looking couple from next door, to the old man who owns the potato chip emporium across the way - is in on the conspiracy.  

 

When he voices this thought to Silver, though, Silver just rolls his eyes. "Now, staring at people like you’re personally trying to weed out who among them is working for Satan himself isn’t going to get you anywhere.” 

 

Flint snorts. Silver adds, "We’re trying to blend in, remember?” 

 

Flint stirs his melting frozen yogurt.  “I suppose.” 

 

“Smile, dear,” Silver tells him, as he finishes off his yogurt. “You look like you’re going to commit murder.”  

 

“We’re all dead already, that doesn’t make sense,” Flint tells him rather petulantly, and gets up to throw away his cup. Silver, of course, follows him, tossing his away as well.  

 

“I’ll take you to the antique store,” Silver continues, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. “I’ll steal you a nice book.”  

 

“You don’t have to steal anything. There is no economic system here.”  

 

Silver grins and Flint can see his own reflection glaring back at him in the sunglasses. “Oh, but what’s the fun in that?”  

 

They end up going to the bookstore, which Flint will admit is rather well-stocked. There are a couple of other people browsing through, and right when he’s running his fingers down a shelf dedicated to Romantic poets, Silver loops his arm around Flint’s waist. 

 

“Just blending in,” Silver says into his ear, as Flint weighs the risk of pushing him away, possibly into the shelf across from them - even though Silver’s touch, however unexpected, is not very unpleasant at all. His hand tightens ever so slightly against Flint’s side. “Everyone in here is holding hands at the least. We have to sell the con, right?”  

 

Flint says, “You’re stealing me two books.” 

 

Silver waves goodbye to the store owner - a woman who looks far too nice to be a demon, and _yet_ \- and when he and Flint are back in their neighborhood, he pulls two copies that, on second glance, are two vintage editions of Lord Byron. Flint absolutely does not look at the line of taut skin that’s exposed when his shirt rides up at the gesture, nor how the books are still warm when he hands them to Flint. 

 

“Just for you, darling,” Silver says, and then Flint decides it’s safe enough to try to push him into a hedge. 

 

 

•••

 

 

The time comes to head up to the mansion for the dinner. Silver puts on a fresh tee-shirt, and he’s practically halfway out the door before he realizes Flint is still getting dressed. 

 

“Come on, it’s a dinner, not your wedding, “Silver tells him, as Flint appears in the doorway of the walk-in closet that contains clothing that fits both of them. He seems to be critically eyeing two very similarly colored ties in his hands. “You don’t need a _tie_." 

 

“It’s a dinner party,” Flint says, holding up the one on the left and squinting a little at the fabric. ‘I’m not about to wear tennis shoes out.” 

 

Silver glances down at the shoe he’s wearing - an exact replica of the ones he used to have, down to the red-brown scuff on one of the toes. “I’m wearing tennis shoes." 

 

“Exactly,” Flint says.  

 

They eventually make it out of the house - and Silver has to herd Flint out when he spends too much time trying to comb his hair in the mirror near the door. They make the walk up to Thomas’s mansion. Silver glances over at Flint ever so often, and he looks far more nervous than Silver is strictly comfortable _anyone_  looking. Around them, as night sets, the air gets just a touch cooler - and the smell of caramelized sugar fills the air, as they can see the soft glow of fireflies in the distance.  

 

It’s all very idyllic, only Silver is forty-percent sure that Flint might give himself an aneurysm before he sees his ex-husband again. That rather puts a damper on the fireflies.  

 

“Try to keep it together this time, yeah?” Silver tells Flint as they go up the walkway. “Drink a lot of that helps. Thomas is going to think you have some sort of vendetta against him." 

 

“I am _keeping it together_ , _”_ Flint hisses, as he glances around them. Silver puts a hand on his arm, getting his attention. 

 

“Just don’t think about how this is your husband who doesn’t remember you, and if we don’t find a way to fix that then you’re going to have to attempt to build your relationship all over again, yeah?”

 

Flint just glares at him, and Silver quickens his steps. 

 

Thomas answers the door with a cheerful, “John, hello!” He glances past Silver, at Flint. “And - Mr. Flint - a pleasure, once again.” He’s wearing a dark red suit that looks far nicer than what either of them is wearing, and Silver would be jealous if only _he didn’t look so good_. 

 

“James,” Flint says in a rough voice, his eyes as wide as the first time Thomas had approached him, and Silver’s not seeing this evening getting any better. “Please, call me James.” 

 

“James,” Thomas says, and at least it’s much warmer this time. Silver nudges Flint in front of him as Thomas ushers them in.  “You’re just in time. We’re talking about the highlights of our past careers and charitable contributions - and not to boast, but I have _quite_  a lot to contribute from what I can remember- ” 

 

“Oh, excellent,” Silver says under his breath, and nudges Flint in front of him as they follow Thomas into his mansion. “Your house looks…. very nice.” 

 

“Oh, thank you,” Thomas says, leading them into a room that’s best described as something right Versailles, where a few people are milling about holding wine glasses. “I do hope it’s not too ornate for your comforts. I know you mentioned how you lived a very simple life, John.” 

 

“That’s me,” Silver says, forcing a smile onto his face. "Is your soulmate around, then?"

 

The smile seems to stiffen on Thomas's face ever so slightly. "Oh, she has yet to return from her adventures, I'm afraid," he explains. "She's very health-concious, I believe."

 

"Sure," Silver says. “James, you were a fan of ornate things, weren’t you?”

 

“Uh,” Flint says, as Thomas turns with an expectant look on his face. “That’s a nice fountain you have over there.” 

 

It seems to satisfy Thomas, though, as he turns where there is a large indoor fountain that Silver’s pretty sure belonged in some museum. “Why thank you, James. I met the Pope in front of one that looked just like it, you know." 

 

As he goes on about meeting the Pope and probably a variety of famous figures, Silver snags a glass of wine for him, and after a second thought gets one for Flint as well. Flint starts to drink it like a man who’s been trapped in a desert for days and has just stumbled upon a well, as Silver mutters, “There, there, prof - “ 

 

There’s a bell-like chime, then, and Thomas looks past them. “Oh, that must be our last guest,” he says brightly, and he disappears to answer the door. 

 

“Quick, do you think it’s Mandela or Jesus Christ himself that Thomas has some tale with?” Silver says, and Flint at least has the energy to scowl at him. “Come on, tell me - did he best David Beckham at a pickup game with those stupidly long legs of his?”  

 

Before Flint can answer, they see the last guest. “Hello,” Rogers says, standing next to Thomas. “I’m glad you could all make it here.” 

 

Silver doesn’t look at Flint, but he can feel him stiffen at his side. This, they might not have prepared for.  

 

Unfortunately, they’re still closest to the entrance, and so Rogers descends on them first, Thomas drifting away to talk to Joji and Joshua. “Mr. Flint, Mr. Little,” Rogers says. “Are you transitioning well to the Good Place?” 

 

“Just _excellent_ ,” Silver says. “James here is going to start building birdhouses.”  

 

“Yes,” Flint says. “Birdhouses are my latest passion.” 

 

“What can I say, the man loves his birds!” Silver enthuses, looping their arms together. “And how are you, Mr. Rogers?” 

 

“Very well, thank you,” Rogers says, his expression flat even as he says it. “And you’re settling in with the neighbors?” 

 

“We are very happy,” Flint says. “Thank you.” 

 

“Very good,” Rogers says. “I must give credit to Mr. Hamilton for organizing this. Now if you will excuse me, I have something to discuss with Mr. Muldoon.“  

 

He walks by them, and Silver waits until they’re sure he’s out of earshot before turning to Flint. “He certainly did not seem like he’s waiting for us to - I don’t know, snap under this torture or _something_.”  

 

“If he’s set this whole place up, then he probably knows how to wait us out,” Flint says. “If this is meant to torture us, it’s for the long term.”  

 

“You think he knows we know?” 

 

“I think if we did, he wouldn’t be at a dinner party with us,” Flint says.  

 

Before Silver can reply, Thomas is at the entrance, ringing - out of all things, a silver bell. “Dinner is served!”

 

 

 

•••

 

 

At the dinner table, where they all find place cards that appear to be embroidered with gold thread delicately spelling out their names. Thomas sits at the head, Silver at his right, with Flint next to him. Rogers is at the seat at the other end of the table. 

 

Flint wonders if he can get Silver to change places with him, but Silver sits down in the tall chair with the sort of exhale that sounds like he’s not moving for a while.  

 

“I want to thank you all for coming,” Thomas says earnestly when they're all settled. “Thank you to Woodes for allowing me to host this event, and for all of you…" 

 

Silver’s fingers start to tap on the table surface idly, even though Thomas is speaking right next to him, and Flint’s foot presses down on his. “Behave,” Flint hisses, as Thomas continues speaking, and Silver shoots him a glare in response.  

 

“…and so that’s why every time I serve pork at a dinner, I think about that time in Yosemite,” Thomas finishes. Flint glances down the table, where everyone seems to be nodding in agreement.  

 

“Yes,” Rogers says at last. “I’d like to propose a toast for Mr. Hamilton’s efforts in organizing tonight.” 

 

“To new friends,” Thomas says, raising his glass. Flint raises his immediately, and after a moment, Silver does too. They clink glasses, and then the food starts appearing on the table in front of them. There are plates and plates of various foods, bottles of wine and sparkling water in between each dish - and that’s not even starting on the elaborate floral arrangements that decorate the middle of the table, the sideboards of the dining room, as everyone around them starts to load their plates with food.  

 

Silver, much to Flint’s horror, is cracking open a lobster with his nails when he looks over. Thomas says, after a glance at the man between them, “So, James, your partner here told me that you were a university professor.”   

 

“Yes,” Flint says, glad to have _something_ he knows he can't mess up talking about. “I taught moral philosophy for ten years.”  

 

“How fascinating,” Thomas says, and he starts talking about his experiences about reading Kant late at night when he was at Cambridge, and Flint’s ears start to ring because he’s heard these stories, he _knows_ , of course he does -  

 

Flint doesn’t realize he hasn’t moved until Silver’s sharp elbow prods him in the side. He snaps out of it, still trying to watch Thomas without being too conspicuous about it, and he selects some dish at random and putting some of it on his plate. 

 

"Yes, I always did appreciate Kant," Flint says, a little too late in response to Thomas's question. He glances down at his plate, realizing he's the only one who's not touched his food. 

 

“Not a fan, then?” Thomas asks, and when Flint glances up, his eyes are on him. Flint has to remember how exactly the physical mechanisms of breathing worked - because for all that he’s tried to convince himself that just _maybe_  this isn’t really his husband here, he’d recognize that look anywhere, the glimmer of barely concealed amusement as Thomas says, “I’m sure I can conjure something else for you to eat, if you’d like?" 

 

Flint glances belatedly down at his plate, where there’s a mound of green beans. “Ah,” he says, “Right. I must have forgotten.” He dares looking up at the man again. “I’m rather partial to eggplant, actually.” 

 

He remembers once, Thomas had tried to cook ratatouille for their anniversary. They had decided to have a quiet night at home, candlelight dinner and all. Only Flint had come back from his office hours and had found Thomas standing on a chair, trying desperately to rip the fire alarm out of the wall. Apparently, he had been on the phone with Miranda and had forgotten about dinner. 

 

They had ended up ordering pizza, eating it by the candlelight. It’s a fond memory of his.  

 

Thomas waves his hand, “I’ll get you another plate,” he says, and Flint’s plate is wiped clean in front of him. 

 

“Thank you,” Flint says after a moment, and he reaches for what appears to be some sort of stewed chicken. "This looks excellent." 

 

There’s a clatter, then, and everyone's head swivels down the the table. Flint’s half-out of his seat before he realizes it, as they all see how Thomas’s eyes go wide, his dropped fork abandoned where it fell on the table. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas says suddenly, blinking at Flint, then down the table. “I’m - sorry. I just - remembered something from my life, I believe. Something I suppose that glitch did not take from me, after all." 

 

Beside him, Flint can hear Silver suck in the slightest breath, try to cover - “How interesting. Would someone pass me that bottle?" 

 

“Yes, interesting,” Rogers says, and his eyes are sharp on Thomas from down the table. “Please, share with us whatever you’ve remembered?”  

 

“Oh,” Thomas says, quickly recovering, as he picks up his fork again. “Yes. I believe it’s a memory of my mother - I just remembered how when I moved to Paris for a year, she cried the entire way to the airport, in the back of the limo. I apologize for the commotion, all - it just took me by surprise, that’s all.” 

 

“That’s quite all right,” Rogers says, before turning back to what looks like a very calm conversation with one of their neighbors.  

 

Only unlike Rogers, from up close Flint sees how Thomas’s nostrils flare every so slightly at his words. Unlike Rogers, he knows that tick.

 

Thomas had done the same thing one crisp fall night a long way and long time ago, when he had said, _I didn’t know you bought a ring_  as Flint had been on one knee in front of him, said ring in his shaking hands. 

 

Thomas’s eyes flick back to Flint, and Flint - he _knows_ that Thomas is lying about whatever he remembered. He doesn’t know what it is - nor does he know whatever Thomas might have remembered, but as Thomas picks up his fork once again, asking Joji about his opinion on some book, it gives Flint the first hope he’s felt in days. 

 

Silver’s knee knocks against his under the table, and when Flint looks over at him, there’s a certain look in his eye. Of course _Silver_  would know when someone was lying, too - and Flint doesn’t dare bring it up here, not now, and so he focuses on his plate, and although it goes against all of his instincts, he doesn’t look at Thomas for the rest of the dinner. 

 

 

•••

 

 

Flint wants to ask Thomas after dinner, and he’s about to corner him, but then Silver’s tugging his elbow. “James and I are going hiking tomorrow,” he says with a sort of restrained, respectable cheer that is unlike what Flint would ever expect from him, “So we’ll be dodging drinks tonight, I’m afraid. We'e got an - uh - early start!"

 

“Oh,” Thomas says, “Well, have a good night!” 

 

“We _will_ ,” Silver says, and he’s pulling Flint away before Flint can stop him, taking him back into the sugar-scented night.  

 

Outside, Flint pushes him away as soon as they’re clear of the view from the large bay windows in the front. “What was that?” he hisses. “You saw what happened - " 

 

“Yes, yes, but you’re in no state to be prodding around for those sorts of answers,” Silver whispers right back. “If he had remembered you, he would’ve said something more, don’t you think?” 

 

The hope that had been in chest dies away, mostly, as Flint bites out, “But what if it was _something_?" 

 

“That might be, but in the meantime, Rogers is still in there,” Silver says. “You’re far from _subtle_ , I’ll say, in regards to him. It could be a good sign, but it could also be something that he didn’t feel like sharing with the class. Something tells me you wouldn’t be able to hide that sort of disappointment, clearly not when you were about to pass out each time he fluttered his lashes at you." 

 

He’s right, but Flint’s not going to say it out loud. Instead, he says, “We’re going to need to deal with Rogers anyways.” 

 

“ _Deal with_ \- you do know that if we’re right about all of this, he’s likely the last person - _if he even is a person_ \- we would want to spend a moment alone with?” They’re rounding the last corner to their own street, as Silver hurries to keep up with him. "Are you insane?"

 

“We would need some sort of confirmation that this is the Bad Place, yes,” Flint says. “But we need to start thinking about what we’re going to do when it happens.”  

 

Silver stops when they reach the front of their house. “When 'it' happens?” 

 

“When we get Thomas to remember who he is - " 

 

“You mean remember who _you_ are - “ 

 

“- and once we figure out a way to get to wherever the Good Place is,” Flint says. “Then we never have to see each other ever again.”  

 

“Quick question, though, before you go after Rogers,” Silver says. “Just something that I think I need confirm - “ 

 

“Silver, for fork’s sake,” Flint snaps, “If it’s about Thomas, I don’t want to hear it - “ 

 

“Was that window broken when we left?” Silver asks, pointing. Flint’s head swivels, and they both regard the lack of glass in their front window for a moment. “Are there home invaders here?" 

 

“Stay here,” Flint says, his eyes on the house - although he realizes that Silver’s not about to _listen to him_ , and Flint can hear him trailing behind as he approaches with the house. 

 

There are no lights on, but the door swings open silently when Flint presses on it. He takes one step in, then another. Silver follows him, remarkably quiet, as they feel their way into the living room.  

 

He can’t hear anything - nor can he see anything - so he takes a chance, flicks on a light. 

 

There’s no one there. 

 

Flint turns to Silver, just in time to see Silver’s eyebrows fly up, and then there’s something - _someone_  - striking him in the back. 

 

He lands on the floor with a grunt, curling up to protect his head, as the weight presses down on him. Flint takes advantage of how he’s sliding against the floor to turn around, fist already flying up to catch that someone in the gut.  

 

The personlets out a sharp gasp - both in pain and possibly irritation - as they stumble back, off of him. Flint props himself up on his elbows, getting ready to kick - and then Silver’s coming in between the two of them, his hands up as if to separate them. It's a woman, who's inexplicably brandishing her shoe at them like they're the ones who've broken into the house. 

 

“Wait!” Silver exclaims. “Holy shirt - _Madi_?” 

 

“You know her?” Flint tries to wheeze, but it seems that the air’s been knocked from his lungs. The woman stops, though, and she looks up at Silver incredulously.  

 

“ _John_?”  


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Madi_ ,” Silver repeats, his face going slack.

 

“You’re here,” the woman says right back to him, her eyes wide. “How  - “

 

But she cuts her off just as suddenly, getting off of Flint. Flint watches as she stands up, just staring, as Silver comes close. “Madi,” he says, the name sounding reverent, as he reaches out to touch her wrist, as she steps even closer to him. 

 

They meet in the middle with a tight embrace, and although Flint can’t see either one of their faces, he sees the tight clench Silver has on her back, tugging her close as his fingers dig into her shirt, her hands coming up to press his head closer. Flint looks away as he gets up, guessing that the woman’s not going to leap at him now, and he straightens his clothing. Despite having been recently hit in the back and tackled to the ground, Flint can’t even feel a single bruise forming, at least, as he waits. 

 

“I’m sorry for breaking the window,” Madi says, her voice muffled into his neck. “I didn’t know that _you_ were here -  _“_

 

Silver says something quiet back to her, but then they just fall into silence, clutching onto each other and swaying ever so slightly. 

 

“Apologies for the interruption,” Flint says eventually, as they continue to hug for an incredibly long amount of time, “But who are you?” 

 

Flint’s met with two pairs of eyes now on him as they separate. “Flint, this is Madi,” Silver says, rather unnecessarily, keeping a hand on the small of her back as they face him.  “We knew each other back in the world of the living - God, I can’t believe you’re _here_."

 

“Flint,” Madi repeats, and he nods. “How do - did you know John?” 

 

“We’re fake soulmates,” Silver answers for him, and the way he’s looking at her, nearly hungrily, nearly like he’s afraid she’s about to disappear -  “Which, by the way, is because this is not the Good Place. I know that this might come as somewhat of a shock - ” 

 

“I know,” Madi says, glancing over at Flint then back to Silver. “Fake soulmates?”  

 

“How do you _know_?” 

 

“I broke into Roger’s office my first night here,” Madi says, and Flint has to admit, he didn’t even think about doing that himself. “I read a file on me, and I realized that my soulmate and I were set up to... torture each other, in a manner of speaking.” She glances over at Flint, he realizes, appraising him. “I’ve been trying to find a way out of here."

 

“Your soulmate?” Silver says, and now the expression that flits across his features is too quick to catch if Flint hadn’t already been looking at him. “Who is it?” 

 

“No one I knew in my life, nor anyone you did. His name is Thomas Hamilton,” Madi says, and Flint feels something in his chest pull. 

 

He’s not sure how to feel about _Thomas’s soulmate_  standing right in front of him - even a fake soulmate, and it stings to hear out loud. He can hear Silver make some surprised noise, as Flint feels the press of the wall behind his back as he finds himself needing the support. This  \- this is just _too much_. 

 

“Well,” Silver says. “Madi, Flint here is his husband. It’s a small world, isn’t it?” 

 

“Oh,” Madi says, looking genuinely surprised as she looks at Flint. “You and your husband, you are both here?” 

 

Still feeling rather weak, Flint says, “It’s a bit of a story."

 

“Well,” Silver says, reaching out to take her hand, and Madi laces her fingers with his, “It’s more than a _bit_ of a story. Here, come sit in our Icelandic abode." 

 

 

•••

 

In the living room, Silver had somehow managed to figure out how to make one of the chairs recline earlier, but now he’s sitting upright as he looks right at Madi. Madi’s sitting on the edge of the couch next to him, still looking at Flint a little mistrust, as Silver’s foot presses up against the side of her leg. 

 

Flint himself is sitting on the opposite couch, not sure whether to stare back at Madi or watch Silver as he speaks. He settles on staring down at his hands, and he doesn’t realize he’s running his fingers over the bare skin of his right ring finger until Silver’s nearly finished speaking. 

 

“So let me make sure I have this clear,” Madi says when Silver’s done. “You believe that Rogers is trying to torture you, having you take the place of this Solomon Little?” 

 

“Solomon Little might not even be real,” Flint points out, and he lifts his head. “Rogers could have created him from nothing.” 

 

“And Thomas - your husband doesn’t remember you?”

 

“That might change,” Flint tells her. “We were at dinner, and he remembered something - “ 

 

“We don’t know that,” Silver interjects. “I, for one, am still not entirely convinced that he isn’t some robot or whatever that Rogers had crafted to get at you.” 

 

“I _know_ my own husband.” 

 

“You said it yourself, why would your angelic husband be here?” 

 

“Unless you’ve somehow managed to forget, we seem to be part of a larger plot here - “ 

 

“Enough,” Madi says, interrupting both of them, frowning. “I don’t believe Thomas is working with Rogers. After I saw my file, I noticed that most of the people in this place met with Rogers quite often - all except for Thomas.”

 

“Maybe,” Silver says. “Or maybe you didn’t notice.” Once again, it’s only because Flint’s looking right at him that he notices something that shifts over his face. “You didn’t happen to see my file while you were doing your little spy mission, did you?” 

 

“No,” Madi says, her eyes flicking to Silver then back to Flint. “Nor yours."

 

"Where have you been?” Flint asks her then. “You’ve been gone for at least a few days.” 

 

“I was looking for a way out of here,” Madi says. “Past this neighborhood, there is just wilderness that stretches out farther than I had originally thought. I thought that I might try to find a boundary to the next place."

 

“Grand Canyon, right?” Silver says with a nod at Flint. “That’s what I said - “ 

 

“More like Talassemtane,” Madi says, frowning. “You saw something else?” 

 

“Talass- yeah, I did,” Silver says. “You don’t think - “

 

“If we saw different things, perhaps the landscape shifts with us,” Madi says, and she and Silver share a long look. “I thought that perhaps Rogers’s influence extends far beyond this place."

 

“I didn’t find a boundary,” Silver says. “But to be fair, I only tried a little.” 

 

The corner of Madi’s mouth twitches up, and the fond look that she gives Silver makes something twist inside Flint. “Then you must not have gone far enough. I found what I believed was a boundary.” 

 

“Then why return?” Flint says, and Silver looks at him sharply. “Why not try to get out of here, if you knew that this isn’t the Good Place?” 

 

Madi meets his eyes steadily, and he’s begrudging surprised that she doesn’t blink at his own flat expression. “I could not cross the boundary. The park I had hiked through seemed like it was right out of my memory, but when I got there, there was a sort of barrier that prevented me from crossing. It was as though the trees had grown impossibly dense, and the more I tried to break through, the more they grew in my path, blocking my way through.” 

 

“And here?” Flint presses. “Why did you break into our house?” 

 

“I was attempting to keep my distance from Thomas,” Madi tells him. “I believed this to be an unoccupied house. Apologies for the window.”

 

“All right, enough of the interrogation,” Silver says, giving Flint another look before turning back to her. “I can’t believe you’re here."

 

Flint stands up. “I’ll let you two catch up,” he says. “Uh, mind the clown on that wall. It moves if you get too close."

 

“Flint,” Madi says, and he looks back at her. “From the little time I’ve spent with him, Thomas seems like a good man. I hope that you will get him back.”

 

Flint nods at her, making sure there’s at least a closed door between him and them before he lets out the first, shuddering breath. 

 

 

•••

 

 

He wakes up to an elbow in his side. “Flint,” Silver hisses, as Flint blinks into the darkness all around him. “It’s just me. Don’t murder me, all right?” 

 

“Silver - what the _fork_?“ He can’t see much in the dark of the bedroom, as he feels Silver groping around for the blanket before he slides into the bed next to him. “What are you doing?” 

 

“Madi’s taking the foldout bed, and I’m not about to stare at that creepy clown painting all night, yeah?” 

 

“ _Why are you in here_?” 

 

“Because Madi also hates that I kick in my sleep, and I have a feeling that not even fake -Heaven changes that ,” Silver says, “And I love her and I want her to be happy. You, on the other hand, I can irritate quite a bit before I even start to feel bad.” 

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“I don’t think I can share his bed.” 

 

“Just go to sleep,” Flint mutters, turning so that he’s facing away from him. He can feel Silver fidgeting, though, and so soon he rolls back, grumpily pushing down onto his pillow. “What is it, really?” 

 

Silver is silent for a long moment, enough so that Flint pays attention. In the brief amount of time he’s known Silver, he’s not sure he’s ever heard him be this quiet before. “I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Silver says, and his voice seems disembodied, coming from somewhere in the dark beside him. 

 

Flint swallows, careful not to move a single inch as Silver adds, “And then she’s right there in front of me, and - I don’t know. I haven’t slept beside her in years, although I wished for the chance, and now that I have it  \- I find myself unable to take what’s in front of me into account. ”

 

Perhaps the dark is bringing out something honest in both of them, for Flint says, “I get it.” 

 

“Do you?” 

 

“When I first knew Thomas was here,” Flint says somewhere in Silver’s direction, "I was relieved because he was dead. And then I felt horrible that he was  \- that something had happened. And then for him not to remember… I can’t think of the last time I’ve felt this lost. You’re just adjusting to all of this, and that’s perfectly understandable, given our circumstances.” 

 

He can feel movement beside him, perhaps Silver turning his head. "It’s just like  \- like  I’m coming out of some long dream,” Silver says, letting out a exhale before continuing, “And I’m just now finally waking up, seeing her there  -  and it nearly feels too much, like I need to be finding a way out before it goes away by itself. Like perhaps the mistake is that any of this has been given to me, at all, because I certainly don’t feel like I deserve it.” 

 

The words are loaded, a tone of Silver’s voice that makes Flint wary  \- not that the thoughts are unfamiliar, of course not. Maybe it’s because he’s in that place between full awareness and sleep that he thinks to himself, maybe they’re not all that different from each other. It’s that familiarity that Flints knows well  enough so that he knows to tread lightly with his words. God knows he’s been thinking along the same lines the past few days himself. 

 

So instead, in an attempt at brevity, Flint says, “If this is waking up from some dream, I’d hate to see what your actual dreams are like,” and Silver huffs. “No one should dream of this much clown art.” 

 

“That’s what this is,” Silver says, and even when Flint turns his head, he can’t see his features, just the smallest amount of light casting on his profile that gives his presence any visibility here. “Even if this is the Bad Place - it means something, if I can see her again, it’s sort of between good and bad, right? Good because I get to see her  \- bad since now I know what it feels like for it all to be taken away. ” 

 

“Again?” Flint pauses, measuring the silence between them. He asks, carefully, “Did she die before you?” 

 

Silver's quiet for a long time, enough so that Flint thinks that perhaps he’s fallen asleep. But then he shifts, rolling over onto his side so that Flint can feel his breath on his neck, the top of his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “She did.”

 

And that, Flint doesn’t have the words to. He searches for something to say, anything, but then he feels Silver’s breathing even out until he’s snoring gently right beside his head. 

 

Flint falls asleep to the feeling of the warmth radiating off Silver. But before he drifts off, he can just feel the side of Silver’s calf brushing against his below the sheets, faint but unmistakably there, and Flint lets him. 

 

 

•••

 

 

“We should go out, find the boundaries again,” Madi says. It’s the next morning, and even though he feels remarkably fine, Silver wishes that he had a hot cup of coffee and a cigarette just about now  \- emphasis on the cigarette, which he still can’t seem to wish into existence, damn it .

 

Across the table from her, Flint looks a little rumpled, not in an altogether unattractive way, and though he had gotten up long before Silver had, he looks like he should have pillow creases down one side of his face still  \- and Silver _really_ needs coffee if he’s thinking things like that. 

 

Unaware of his mind probably becoming addled from all the magical situations he’s been exposed to from the past few days, Madi continues, “We don’t know what’s on the other side, but breaking through the barriers might be the next logical step.” She points at a place on the map, far on the outside of the town. “This place, I was able to get the farthest. We should go there to see how far we can go."

 

Silver is starting to regret that Madi and Flint have now met because Flint’s nodding like he’s agreeing with every word.  “You said that it was like this place tried to keep you out?” 

 

“It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,” Madi tells him. “And these past few weeks have been far beyond my imagination. Whatever this is  \- perhaps Rogers has set this place up to keep us all contained.” 

 

“Then we should go now.” 

 

“Now hang on,” Silver says, looking at Flint. "I thought you weren’t so set on the idea of leaving this place without Thomas."

 

Flint looks insulted. “I’m not.” 

 

“You’re going to kidnap him, then?” 

 

“We’ll come back for him once we figure out a way to break the barrier,” Flint says, and something in his face goes especially hard  \- and when exactly did Silver learn his facial nuances?  “We’ll figure out a way. But you -“ and he looks back at Madi, “You’ve  managed to get farther than either one of us, so it would do well to gather what we know and make another attempt before any of that.” 

 

“He gets like that,” Silver says to Madi, mostly because he can’t help himself, and also because he’s thinking about the potential consequences for this excursion and he’s always been one for humor in situations that makes real fear churn in his stomach. “Little pro tip, don’t suggest that he abandon his giraffe husband. Did I tell you about my little tea with the lord himself?” 

 

“ _Giraffe?”_

 

“John,” Madi says, “Please play nice.” 

 

“Anyways, one of us is going to have to figure out how we explain why we’re going on an extended trip to test the barriers of this place without saying that exactly, I mean,” Silver says. “Rogers can teleport, can’t he? How do we know he doesn’t just stop us? And for that matter, how do you know if you can break the barrier and  \- oh, I don’t know, get sucked into some abyss until Rogers comes and grabs us? ” 

 

“People take hiking trips, you know,” Flint answers, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows like he’s genuinely confused why Silver is bringing up all these _very valid points_. “We don’t know how much Rogers knows, but there isn’t exactly a better option.” 

 

“There’s always an option,” Silver tells him, then looks at Madi. “Please tell me at least you understand how _reckless_ this is.”

 

Madi looks at him. “We cannot avoid the danger, John. We don’t know what’s out there, but we need to at least try.” 

 

“Silver, you don’t have to go,” Flint says. “It might even be wise to have someone stay behind  - “ 

 

“Fork that,” Silver says instantly. “But I don’t see how Rogers doesn’t see me and Madi together and puts it together that we’re onto him  \- how are you planning on explaining that, exactly?” 

 

“That’s why I should not be going,” Madi says like she’s realizing it, and they both turn to her. “I’ll be the one who stays behind. You’re right, Flint, and besides, I can use the time to see if you are correct about Thomas. You’ll both go as far as you can, then come back, and we’ll work it out from there.”

 

“I can accept that,” Flint says. 

 

Silver looks between them helplessly. “This is a bad idea,” he says. “The amount we don’t know  \- t his is a _really_  bad idea, and I’ve had my share."

 

“We’ve had worse,” Madi says and favors him with that rare small smile she does that makes him warm all over at the time, even though he really hates how much she knows that works on him. “Flint?” 

 

“I agree with Madi,” Flint says, fixing his eyes on Silver. He looks determined, focused, and likely as far from what Silver imagines he looked like last night when they both spoke in the dark as he could be. He’s never heard Flint speak that quietly before, and Flint now  \- he looks like he has a purpose. 

 

So with that, Silver resigns himself to probably die a horrible death in the middle of a vortex. He sighs. “Let’s just think about this for a moment, before I agree to anything,” he says, " If the place copied Madi's memories when it was her out there, copied mine when it was me, what’s it going to do when there are two of us?” 

 

“Something extraordinary, I would expect,” Madi says dryly, and Flint’s mouth quirks ever so slightly at the end. “Does the unknown worry you?” 

 

“I think it should worry both of you a lot more,” Silver says, “Also if we’re going to be doing this, I’ll need a little time. I want to at least die again on a full stomach.” 

 

 

•••

 

 

Madi goes back to the mansion to find Thomas, and Silver and Flint spent the next half hour preparing for likely death (“Stop saying that, or it’ll come true,” Flint says, in perhaps the most ominous way). Silver chooses to spend his time having a margarita in their backyard. 

 

As they walk out of the house, Silver waves to their neighbors across the street, who are out pruning their hedges, out of all things, forcing Flint to slow down as he does so. “Can’t be raising red flags, can we,” Silver says in a low tone to Flint, before calling out, “Good day!"

 

“Howdy,” one of the neighbors says. “Out for an adventure?”

 

Silver looks over at Flint, who’s forgoing greetings in favor of adjusting the strap of the massive backpack around his chest. “Just a bit of hiking, we thought,” he answers cheerfully. “How are the petunias?” 

 

“Just splendid  \- just planted these yesterday,” the man enthuses, cradling a full bloom in one hand. “Enjoy your outing!”

 

Once they’re out of range, Silver says, “I have a feeling you didn’t have the people skills down too well during your military days.” 

 

“You should have brought more supplies,” Flint answers instead, motioning to Silver’s much smaller backpack. “We don’t know what we’re going to face out there.”

 

“I find that when I face adversity, I prefer to run rather than fight,” Silver says, “And it’s worked reasonably well so far  \- well, I did die, but I’ll take that still high success rate. What’s in there, anyway?”

 

“The kitchen knives,” Flint says, “A map, a compass, water, some food - I couldn’t make guns appear, for some reason, but the knives will be good for defense.“

 

“You know we can wish for anything we want, right?” Silver conjures a glass bowl of fried shrimp - covered with hot sauce, he adds after a moment - there in his hands just to prove him wrong. “I only put the map in mine because that’s all we really needed.” 

 

“We don’t know if that will work out there,” Flint says, nodding to the shrimp. “It’s better to be prepared.” 

 

“Huh,” Silver says, “You really were in the Navy, weren’t you?” 

 

"We should maybe not talk,” Flint says. 

 

And really, he should know by now that Silver’s not going to listen to him, so he just continues to chat even as the houses slowly turn into trees, the paved roads into the forested ground underneath their shoes.

 

 

•••

 

 

He’s not sure when the transition happened, entirely, only that one moment they were on the outskirts of town, the next, they were entering the woods. 

 

As they continue on, the sun overhead flickers the longer they walk, though staying high in the sky the entire time. The temperature doesn’t seem to change, either, as the deeper they get into the forest, the burnt orange of the dead pine trees gets thicker and thicker until it’s too dense to see the sky overhead. 

 

Instead of a canyon this time, it seems to be entirely woods. The dappled light shining through the needles on the trees casts strange shadows across Flint’s back, the top of his head as Silver follows him when the trees mean they can’t walk side by side. All around them, the wildlife also drops off - the faint birdsong turning into silence, and Silver hasn’t seen even an ant for the past hour. 

 

This landscape is longer than Silver remembered his canyon being, and he wonders if this is Flint’s vision that they’re seeing, or what it might mean. Still, he continues to talk, because if there’s one thing, he knows that being silent will just mean he’ll confront the doubts in his head - and he doesn’t think that either him or Flint would like that very much. 

 

He’s in the middle of telling Flint a story half made up about the time he was arrested in San Francisco when Flint stops dead in his tracks. “Did you hear that?” Flint asks under his breath, cutting Silver off in the middle of a side note on why he was so good at getting out of handcuffs in the first place. 

 

“No,” Silver says, “What was it?”

 

“Something cracking,” Flint says, his head going side to side like he’s scanning the area around them. “There -  I heard it, again.” 

 

Silver looks too, but he can’t see anything. “Maybe a squirrel? If you suggest that Rogers has sent spy rodents, I might suggest the equivalent of a therapist here -  “

 

“Silver, shut up,” Flint says. “You seriously can’t hear that?”

 

That makes him pause, and as he’s considering that perhaps Flint needs to eat some of the food that he has packed away -  ha, _squirreled_ away - he hears it. 

 

“Shirt,” Silver says. “That - “

 

“ _Silver, shut up,”_ Flint hisses, but it’s less out of annoyance, Silver realizes, and more genuine worry. “Get back to back with me.“

 

“What?” 

 

“Just do it,” Flint says, as Silver hears it again. It's some crunching sound, what Silver imagines it would sound like if something big was approaching them, breaking twigs and leaves underfoot -  only he can’t see anything, and for something with that noise, he _should_  see something. 

 

They go back to back, Flint’s backpack pressing up against his spine, and together, they slowly go around in circles. Silver can practically feel Flint trying to find the source of the noise, as Silver hears the crunching sound once again - only it doesn’t sound like crunching, on second thought, more like - static?

 

He’s about to suggest that perhaps they consider booking it up into the trees, and that’s when they finally see it. 

 

 

•••

 

 

Madi taps on the door to the study once. “Thomas?” 

 

She waits, until there’s a faint murmur of affirmation from the other side, before slowly opening the door. “Thomas, are you in here?” 

 

“Oh, Madi!” Thomas exclaims, standing up from behind his desk. She remembers when she first met him, she was just astounded by how tall he was.  Beyond physical height, he has the sort of quality that just oversizes his frame -  far from a menacing way, but there’s just so _much_ of him in a way that she’s still more than a little unused to as he approaches her, beaming brightly. “You’re back from your trip!”

 

“Yes,” Madi says, as Thomas looks at her expectantly, “The air was very… refreshing.”

 

“I remember hiking with my godmother in my youth. It relaxed her very much, especially before her coronation ceremony,” Thomas says. “Are you hungry?” 

 

"I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me, actually,” Madi says. Knowing now that this man has a life that he doesn’t remember, makes her feel cautious around him - and she has to be, but she also needs to make sure that he won’t recognize it. “I feel as though I barely know you, and I think that should be remedied.” 

 

Now Thomas smiles, and it feels much more genuine. “I’d love that,” he says. “To the blue parlor?” 

 

 

•••

 

 

Once they’re seated, and Thomas has waved his hand to have a plate of sandwiches and tea in front of them, Madi watches him as they pick up their plates. “I think the fresh air did me good,” she says finally, as he takes a bite of his turkey sandwich, chewing it and swallowing. “I think I’m remembering details - from my previous life.” 

 

“Oh?” Thomas asks, setting down his plate. “I was… unaware, that you didn’t recall parts of your life before.”

 

“Neither was I,” Madi says. “It came to me in flashes, like pieces of a puzzle that I hadn’t known I had lost until it was right there in front of me.” 

 

“Is that so?” Thomas asks, unfailingly polite. It’s only because Madi is watching him so closely that she sees the tiniest flicker of _something_  in his eyes, so she decides to press on. 

 

“I remember my life from before,” she says. “I was married.” 

 

“Married?” Thomas looks genuinely interested. “Do you know them here as well?” 

 

Madi looks down onto her plate, as the fine etching on the china moves around like a stop-motion film, the tiny painted horses’ manes flowing in an imaginary wind. “I haven’t seen him here,” she says. “I wonder if he’s still alive.” She thinks about Silver’s bright smile for a moment - then how he dodged her question of how he died, last night, or of how long he had lived after her own death. That's not to consider now, not when she has to focus. 

 

“Oh,” Thomas says, “Well if he does come here - you should know that he would be very welcome.”

 

Madi looks up. “Here?”

 

“Well, of course,” Thomas says, and his eyes are far kinder than she expected to see, as he pours them both tea. “Love has no bounds. If your husband arrives here, then I see no reason why he wouldn’t live here with you, with us. If he… has a soulmate as well, then they should come too.”

 

“Oh,” Madi says. “That…. would be nice.” 

 

She thought Thomas was spoiled, a bit arrogant, self-centered - but perhaps that was a product of his past, or even of his life before. Madi is starting to see just why Flint loved him, and that makes something dangerous like hope start to bloom in her chest at the thought that even if it takes an eternity to get out of here, they can spend that time here, that they can make some sort of home as they plan. 

 

Thomas holds out a cup of tea to her, and she matches his smile with one of her own. “I think my husband would like you very much,” Madi tells him, accepting the cup. 

 

But before she has the cup fully in her grasp, Thomas drops it. The china shatters on the ground, and although it appears on the table an instant later, untouched, Madi is too caught up in the way that Thomas’s face goes curiously blank for a moment, his fingers twitching where they’re outstretched towards her. 

 

“Thomas?” she asks urgently, standing up, but then Thomas is gasping, his hand closing on thin air. 

 

“My husband,” he gasps, “ _James_ - “

 

 

•••

 

 

After a moment, Silver says, “Is that - is that a _cat_?” 

 

Behind him, Flint’ still frozen. “Uh,” he says, which is the least eloquent thing that Silver has yet to hear come from his mouth. “I think?”

 

The being - the cat - is massive, coming up to Silver’s waist at least. It makes some low rumbling sound, it’s tail flicking from side to side, as it starts to circle them, Flint and Silver moving in unison so that they can keep their eye on it. The noise from before intensified as it takes a step closer to them, and Silver swallows. 

 

But what makes the thing unique is that instead of having fur and skin, it appears to be made out of - well. He doesn’t quite know how to describe it. Silver thinks about one of those old television screens that are forever searching for a channel, so that the screen is an endless cycle of black and white static with the occasional burst of brilliant color, blue or fuchsia or yellow. The thing’s covered in that very pattern, shifting and moving before their very own eyes, looking like it’s come straight out of some terrible CGI cartoon. To be quite honest, the longer he stares at it, the more his eyes hurt trying to conceive just what it is.  

 

Silver’s quite stuck on perceiving the creature, so it takes him a moment to notice when Flint drops down into a crouch. “Hey,” Silver says, reaching out and hitting Flint’s shoulder, hard. “Just _what the fork do you think you’re doing_?” 

 

“Shh,” Flint says, then, “Hey - hey, sweetheart.“

 

“What,” Silver says, “Are you doing, exactly?” 

 

“She’s not trying to harm us,” Flint informs him, then says to the thing in a much lighter tone, “You aren’t, are you?” 

 

“She - that’s not a _she_ , that is some crazed creation that obviously means _we are not supposed to be here_  - “

 

“And here I took you for a rebel,” Flint says, dry. The creature is nearly touching him, then, and Silver watches with mute horror as Flint’s fingertips make contact with it, and he slowly starts to pet the thing. 

 

“Uh,” Silver says after a few moments where Flint is not being eaten by the thing, or at least not that he can tell. “What does it - what does it feel like?” 

 

“Like grass,” Flint says. 

 

“What - really?” 

 

“No,” Flint says, now fully scratching the creature’s head. “Feel for yourself.” 

 

“I’ll pass,” Silver says, and he jumps when the thing picks up its head and seems to look right at him, only it doesn’t have eyes, and he vaguely is reminded of a bumpy record player by the questioning sound it makes.  

 

“Silver,” Flint says, “Pet her.” 

 

Silver slowly reaches forward, and touches the creature. He doesn’t feel anything at first, but then his fingers start to tingle, almost like his limb’s about to fall asleep but then never quite gets to that point. He extends his fingertip over the creature’s head, and manages to not fall back when the creature butts its head up into their hands, evidently liking the attention.

 

Silver’s pinky runs along the outside of Flint’s hand by accident. “You don’t know if it’s a she,” he says, as they watch the creature’s coat suddenly flicker into that bright shade of fuchsia. "Do sci-fi static cats even have gender?" 

 

“You use she with boats,” Flint says. “I just used the past precedent in this case.” 

 

“Do you think this is a boat? Maybe I can imagine some glasses for you." 

 

“Silver,” Flint says, “Let’s not find out if talking agitates her, shall we?” 

 

“You’re probably kidding, but luckily for you, I’m still a little terrified of this thing,” Silver says, watching as Flint uses his other hand to curiously map out along the creature’s shoulders, down its ribs, and they stay there, petting the creature, as the trees rustle all around them.

 

 

•••

 

 

“Thomas,” Madi says, “I need you to breathe in and out.” 

 

“James,” Thomas gasps out, “Oh god, I need - I’m going to - "

 

He lurches upright, then, knocking into the coffee table clumsily as he rises. “He was here - _James - “_

 

“Stop,” Madi commands, and he freezes midstep. “Thomas, what do you recall?” 

 

Thomas looks right at her, his eyes wide. “I remember my life,” he croaks. "I remember my chest hurting so  _badly_ , and then I was here - and my husband was right there, but I didn't realize it then - how could I not recognize him?" 

 

“You remember him,” Madi says. “You remember James Flint.”

 

He looks thunderstruck. “How do you - “ 

 

“I met him,” Madi says. “Thomas, he _was_ here. You didn’t remember him then, and so he and my husband set out to find us a way out of here.”

 

“Your _husband_ \- ?” 

 

“John,” Madi supplies, putting a hand on his shoulder as he sits down, heavily, onto the couch. “John Silver. They set off this morning to find a way out of here. Because - “

 

“This isn’t the Good Place,” Thomas finishes, sounding near desperate. “I remember - I talked to Rogers. This is some trap, and he wiped my memory once I got here - many times - oh god, Madi, we need to warn them - " 

 

“They know,” Madi tells him, trying to soothe him. “We figured it out. We’re going to the outskirts of this place, and we’re going to find a way to break through, to whatever else is out there.” 

 

Thomas shakes his head. “No,” he says, and he visibly steels himself, hands bunching into the fine material of his trousers at his knees. “The only way out is if we can trick Rogers. You can’t escape this place because it was created to keep the four of us in here.”

 

“Just the four of us?” Madi asks, and she frowns. “What could we have possibly done to deserve that?” 

 

“It’s nothing and everything to do with us,” Thomas tells her. “But right now, we need to find my husband - find _our_ husbands. And we need to trick Rogers before it’s too late.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @jamesbarlow!


End file.
